My Darling Annie
by Lady Viola Delesseps
Summary: An imaginary letter written by a tormented Charles Darwin to his daughter Annie after her death at eleven years old. Inspired by the movie "Creation", which was based on the book "Annie's Box".


This is the text I wrote for an imaginary letter from Charles Darwin to his eleven-year-old daughter Annie, after her death. A heartbreaking set-up, it was inspired by the historical events that were enumerated and dramatised in the movie _Creation._ The Darwins have been a fascinating and heartbreaking study for me, and this is an idea of some of what Charles might have put in "Annie's Box". Darwin was very tormented at this point in his life and could not accept what his wife Emma was telling him about God's sovereignty, which seemed to him to be so cruel at this time in his life. I do not agree with Charles Darwin's views on God or His Creation, but in my writing am trying to illustrate Darwin's views and feelings on the subject. I wrote it just for fun, and hope you enjoy.

My darling Annie,

It has been several weeks now, and I reproach myself for putting off this final tribute so long, and yet it is all still surreal to me. The moment I realized you were gone- gone forever did not solidify in my heart as I sat by your bed that night, and most likely never will.

When I think of you, that joyous curiosity that so permeated your existence I cannot bear to think of you cold and in a hideous grave somewhere, still, and unable to live the life that was before you; your tender care for me and your mother, your excitement over this newest baby- it is all unreal... the product of an over-worked mind.

And yet- my steps refuse to take me up to your room, for I know that were I to have the courage I would find only silence, an empty bed, that last little dress hung carefully over a chair when it was discarded for the nightie of your last sleep taken to Malvern. Annie! Why did you go from me? Why leave your poor papa to struggle on alone, his burdens unlightened by your cheerful tenderness? Why did you leave me with all these memories? These ghosts?

I would you had never been! Had been but a simple child, uncaring and close within yourself instead of the wonderful daughter you were, intelligent, curious, and always thinking of others! No, I do not! I do not! It is wicked of me, I am falling prey to wicked thoughts. But then, can man really help it when such befalls him? In the same manner the wolf when one of her cubs dies turns and bites all the others in her grief.

I think of that vicar- I would use strong language, but, dear Annie, I know you would shudder to hear it, and wonder what Mama would say- that devilish vicar that made such a spectacle of you in school for asserting the truth! He has come to his reckoning, I daresay, for his injustice, for by now he has heard of your departure, and perhaps will be regretting it. I say departure, for I dare not say that horrible word– death. It does not suit one such as you- It should not be!

And yet, departure indicates a journey to another (let us hope a better) place, and I know of none. I know of no better place than this earth, with it's wild and wonderful creatures which used to fascinate you so, and it's awesome forces of fate. Yet it has turned on me- it's harmless pupil, and causes me to say I know no worse place than this earth, with it's extreme injustice and wastefulness of life. Wastefulness of life! Was it "natural selection" that you should die so that other could live? Was it? No! For you were the best of them all, and God has taken you from me.

I say God, for He is the cosmic ruler of this place, and now I know that He does not care for the affairs of men. Everything your mother believes and would tell you was of an all-knowing, all-wise, all-loving God. Did He know what He was doing to me when He took you? Was that wise? Was it loving? I can only conclude that in denying Himself in such a way that He fundamentally cannot that it is all a myth. God is dead. Huxley said it. I begin to doubt if he ever existed. If he did, how could he live with such injustice in the world? There is only one answer- he could not.

So now I think of you- gone from this place, but not in another? It is horrible. I cannot believe it. And yet, every passing day, the silence convinces me, the stillness. I find myself yearning for something, something I cannot find, something that I am used to from day to day. Down House is no longer welcome to me, and yet it is better than if I were to return to Malvern. I would leave here if I could, but I cannot. Where would I go? Your footsteps I never hear coming to my study- forgive me for never letting you in! I could not, for I had frightful things, and still do. They haunt me now. I do not hear your voice calling out for me, or for one of your brothers or sisters. Your place is empty at the few meals I've come to since... I walk outside a good deal. Nothing inside is anything more than a horrible shade. You are gone. And there is not a thing I can do about it.

You were my only light, my encouragement in my work. I would say, "I am tired, I should stop," and begin to snuff my candle, but then your face would rise before me, as it so often does now, and I would hear your voice. "What does spontaneous mean, Papa?" And I would continue. I was doing it for you! It was for you I worked, for you I lived! And now that face, so like your mother's when we were young– it rises before me; but I cannot hear your voice. I could only bear to look at you in those last days of your illness by forgetting the Annie I used to know. All I see is those brown eyes closed forever, that beautiful mouth still and cold, your hands folded over your poor stomach, but relaxed, for the pain is gone.

Is it? Are you well? I cannot believe you are, and then I wish that I could die also, knowing that. Then death looms close- and nothing afterward. I cannot. I must continue to work, and I promise you, Annie, I will publish this book. You were right- what is frightening about it? It is just a theory, but there is something in it. Something satisfying I tell myself, but when it's all said and done...? There is no rest. No hope. You are gone. I reproach myself for not being a better father to you, my darling, for reproving you when you grew boisterous. How you tried to please me! How your mother and I loved you! And you had to go and become ill, and leave us so wretched without you.

I cannot forget the gloom of your last days. Those stories about good children departing in places of light and love and flowers are not true. We did our best to make you comfortable, but in my memory looms a dark room, a single candle glimmering by your bed, your mother sitting beside you until we had to send you away from her; her confinement was too close. I think of that dark room at Malvern, sounds of your wracking cough, your horrible wretchings and burning fever... how I wished I could help! How I wished I could help you, could relieve you; but no one could. No one did.

I prayed to God to save you, and he did not answer. Your mother says he did- he said no. I cannot believe in a God who would take a man's children from him! Who would let hundreds of millions of the common trout's eggs that are laid never mature into live fish! Who creates creatures such as the sloth, where one more mistake or mutation would result in their extinction, or make his world go through the painful process of evolution, where there are creatures so like a man, but falling just short! There is much wrong with this world, so much so I am almost glad you left it. It gave you such pain to see a rabbit killed by a fox, and yet, you would turn so philosophically to your brothers and sisters and explain the reason, just like a proper scientist, isolating emotions from evidence.

I am no longer sure of the reason. I am no longer sure of anything- except one thing: You are gone, and that must mean God does not exist. If he does not exist, did he ever, or has he simply ceased to be, like so much of the world? And if he has, who killed him? Was it I? The thought is more wretched than I can bear.

I love you Annie, and your mother and I miss you more than we know how to say. She would enclose her love, but she does not know I am writing this, she is resting with little Horace. I wish I could do half-justice to the tiny fellow, but I think all his life my love for him will be shadowed by your death. I know you wouldn't like that- you were so eager for his birth, and talked of it even in your fevered sleep, and would put your burning hand up against Mama asking to hold him; you always said "him", so I think somehow you knew- I will try to love him for your sake. And I do; the little chap I'm sure will cheer us all up to some degree, but never as much as we would desire. It can't ever be the same again.

I have seen the death of a child- little Mary Eleanor, born when you were only one year old, and dying in a brief two weeks- and it did not affect me so. Perhaps because I never caught the same glimpses into her future as I did for you. You held such promise- to be dashed to the ground and trampled like a rose-bud but partially opened. And watched so eagerly! All your brothers and sisters are very quiet now. God knows I should try to comfort them as your mother is doing. But I cannot, I should only break. How could I explain all of this to them? I am already doing a poor enough job to you.

After this letter, I will be finished with all this, but I will never forget you, instead sealing up all my bitterness in my own heart. Do not worry about me- your poor papa will be fine. I only wish I knew that you were. All my love, and deepest emotions of all kinds,

Your devoted Papa,

Ch. Darwin


End file.
